by Peter Tonkin
Most of the men whose crimes were under discussion had escaped from Rome and the wrath of the mob by the skin of their teeth in the early watches of the nights soon after the murder. Including Gaius Cassius and his brother-in-law Marcus Brutus. Who had been forced to barricade their villas and fight off outraged crowds attempting to burn them out. As they had burned the Curia in Pompey’s Theatre where the Libertores had slaughtered Caesar. The majority of them were fleeing east, via their country villas and estates. Only one or two hardy, well-protected souls like Decimus Albinus lingered.
iv
It had been Decimus Albinus, in fact, who Cicero was visiting earlier. Decimus, still protected by the centuria of one hundred gladiators he had arranged to give a display in Pompey’s Theatre on the Ides of Mars itself. Apparently to guarantee that his good friend and mentor Julius Caesar was protected as he attended the Senate meeting that promised to declare him king. Actually to ensure the safety of the murderers as they ran red-handed from the deed; most of them waving their bloody daggers in the air. Decimus, to whom Caesar had promised command of the northernmost parts of Italy for the next year. Gallia Cisalpinus Cisalpine Gaul: the land between the Alps and the River Po, the Apennine Mountains and the Rubicon. The most potent power base in Italy. Who had wanted so urgently to discuss with Cicero whether Antony had the legal powers to cancel, change or delay his appointment. Or, worse, to take command of Cisalpine Gaul himself.
‘There is really nothing left to discuss,’ said Cicero. He sensed rather than saw Tiro get ready to record his judgement in the shorthand the secretary had invented for the very purpose. Which was the shorthand now used by the slaves who kept the public records of Senate meetings. But Cicero knew that what he was about to say would never be promulgated. Or even repeated. Not in the records of his speeches, of his letters or of his philosophical treatises. Should he survive to see them published.
‘The Senate has ruled. And that is that. Even if you have now discovered witnesses willing to describe the terrible act in detail. It should make no difference under the law. Brutus, Cassius and the men who executed Caesar did so in the belief that he was seeking absolute power. Tyranny. Kingship. Killing a tyrant is not a criminal act. It is a highly patriotic one. Like executing anyone the Senate has declared hostis outlaw. And as leader of the group, Marcus Junius Brutus has attested to being motivated by the actions of his ancestor who drove the last tyrant and king, Tarquin the Proud, out of the city four hundred years ago.’
‘But the Senate has also ruled that Caesar was not a tyrant,’ Antony reminded Cicero, eyes narrow. Probing. Testing. Twisting…
‘They did that simply because if he was declared a tyrant then all of his actions, plans and appointments would have been cancelled,’ insisted Cicero. Meeting Antony’s cold stare. ‘There would have been utter chaos. Not only in Rome but across the empire. Hundreds of senators forced to seek re-election. City officials high and low seeking reappointment. Legions no longer disbanded. Some needing to be re-formed. Both looking for officers to reassemble them. Pay to be handed back to the legions’ quaestors paymasters. Farms to be relinquished. Returned to their original owners. Entire towns to be vacated. Towns completely peopled by retired legionaries such as Valentia in Hispania. Governors returning for reassignment. Every local government officer in the empire reapplying for his post. Whole regions left without governance as they did so. Revolution. Invasion, even. The Gauls and the Germans always straining at the leash in the north. Sextus Pompey and his pirates at Sicily in the south. The Getae in the east. Anarchy in any case…’
The new calendar disbanded, thought Artemidorus. The eight-day week reinstated. All the work Caesar had done with Cleopatra’s Egyptian mathematician Sosigenes of Alexandria would be undone. Time itself would be broken…
A brief silence settled. Rain pattered softly into the pool of the impluvium at the centre or the atrium behind them. The Mars breeze stirred icily, though it was nearing the end of the month. The lamp flames flickered. Almost all of the seven men facing Cicero across the old-fashioned Tuscan style atrium had legal training as well as military. Many of them had been praetors judges as well as soldiers and senators. And Fulvia was one of the best-educated women in the empire. They all knew as well as Cicero that legally and practically undoing Caesar’s plans would simply tear Rome and the states she governed apart.
‘Mayhem…’ Agreed Antony, breaking the silence. Picking up on Cicero’s short speech without a beat. ‘And that is why I have taken possession of Caesar’s notes and plans as well as his will and other papers. In due legal process.’ He paused, locking gazes with Cicero. As though daring him to disagree with the legality of his actions. ‘Because the Senate, wisely, ruled that Caesar was never a tyrant. Thus preserving his actions in the past. But also meaning that now his plans and dispositions for the future need to be confirmed. Enacted. And only I, as named executor, with these powers and documents, will be able to hold everything together in the immediate future. And put his wishes into action as he would have wanted. Only me.’
Because you have Caesar’s plans, General, thought Artemidorus, and are the one man telling the rest of us exactly what they were. And you have the keys to the city’s financial resources in the Temple of Ops. But is even that treasure going to be enough? Neither he nor Tribune Enobarbus shared Antony’s airy confidence in this matter.
Cicero grew paler. But the purple stripes of the tunic he wore beneath his toga grew darker. Damper. ‘That is true, Lord Antony. But it does not alter the facts which you know as well as I do. The Senate may have declared that Caesar was not a tyrant. Not only making you his executor but also making Brutus and the rest all guilty of conspiracy, treason and murder – murder at the very least.’ He closed his eyes. Took a shuddering breath. ‘But only at first glance.’ Cicero’s eyes opened. Narrowed. Moved from Antony to Fulvia as he added to his explanations. ‘For they would be guilty of all these things had the Senate not pardoned them. In a unanimous vote. Just as complete as the vote that exonerated Caesar. So they cannot be guilty of any of the crimes we have discussed. By order of the Senate and People of Rome.’
v
‘Just so,’ nodded Antony. He paused for a heartbeat. Seemingly happy that the legal position had been established. But then his gaze switched to his secret agent. And he introduced into the discussion the one further question that Septem had suggested he should ask. The real reason for bringing Cicero here. To examine the one point of law that might undo all the defence strategies he had just laid out. In the case of one conspirator at least: the leader. ‘What were Caesar’s last words, Septem?’ snapped Antony. ‘And to whom were they spoken? According to the witnesses you have found and questioned?’ His gaze flashed over to Tiro, making sure the discussion was still being recorded.
‘They were spoken to Marcus Junius Brutus,’ said Artemidorus, who had heard Brutus himself telling Cassius as they fled from the scene of their crime, calling for Cicero and his advice. And the secret agent had been looking for witnesses who had also overheard the fatal words ever since. Witnesses willing to come forward. Who were part of neither faction. For none of Brutus’ friends would stand up before the Senate and accuse him. And none of Antony’s men – such as Artemidorus himself – would be believed if they did so. Even if a large section of the Senate suspected they spoke the truth. But Artemidorus had found a witness at last. A beautiful boy called Adonis.
The witness of whom Cicero had heard only the vaguest whispers.
Speaking now on his cue, Artemidorus was springing a trap which, they hoped, would catch the leader of the conspirators. And open a road down which they might, with luck and cunning, hunt the others. ‘Caesar said, in Greek, to Brutus, “Kai su teknon? Even you my son?”’
‘But what did he mean?’ mused Cicero. Masking the shock in his eyes behind lowered lids. Not surprised, but deeply disturbed by this. Thinking again of Nemesis and the impossibility of escaping the grinding wheels of her justice. Or the terrib
le Friendly Ones who helped her. The Furies who were so powerful no one dared name them outright. For fear of summoning them. ‘Like so many important cases this would turn on the meaning of a single word,’ he prevaricated. ‘That slippery Greek word teknon. Child. Now how are we to interpret that?’
‘He said it to Brutus at the very moment that he died.’ Antony’s voice rang with certainty. ‘“You too my child?” Now, you, Marcus Tullius, and the murderers involved, might insist that “teknon” was merely a term of affection. Which might translate into Latin as, “You too, puer my boy?”, “You too, juvencus youngster?”, “You too, catulaster, lad?” Expressing simple surprise that someone so young and close in friendship could be involved in so terrible a deed.’ He gave a bark of derisive laughter and leaned forward belligerently. ‘Not a public declaration, you would no doubt argue, made with his dying breath. A pronouncement carrying, therefore, great legal weight – as you above all should appreciate. A deathbed confession, so to speak, from someone staring into the face of Charon the Ferryman to the underworld. An announcement that the last of his murderers was in fact his own son. Not to be translated as “You too, filius, my son?” Not “You too, prognatus my offspring?” Not a statement of paternity! Not a declaration of fatherhood. That old question. Which has lain between Caesar, Brutus and Servilia Caepionis, Brutus’ mother, all these years…’
Fulvia spoke suddenly. ‘Those who would deny the possibility say there is little more than fifteen years between them. Caesar and Brutus. Father and son. Could Caesar have fathered a child at the age of fifteen? On a girl four years his elder? Unlikely, they say! But impossible? I think not! We all know Caesar’s reputation with women. That he started his philandering almost as soon as he was in his toga virilis. Which he assumed unusually early as someone of extraordinary mental and physical maturity. Sleeping around before his fifteenth year in fact. When Servilia Caepionis was well into childbearing age. Married at the time to Brutus the Elder, who was already old when the marriage knot was tied. Even though he served as Urban Tribune a couple of years after Servilia fell pregnant. And he fell dead soon after that. But who never managed to impregnate her except, apparently, on this one unique occasion. By coincidence, perhaps, in the very year that Caesar really began his career as the seducer of half of the noble women in Rome! And, as everyone knows, Brutus junior’s mother Servilia was Caesar’s longest serving mistress. Rumoured to be his first. She may deny that Caesar impregnated her – but why should we believe her rather than him? How would she even know? For certain? Sleeping with old husband and young lover? But he would! Know his firstborn – even if he had to keep the knowledge secret? Of course he would!’
Artemidorus also leaned forward then, capturing the sweating lawyer’s unsteady gaze. Sweeping back an unruly lock of hair from above his left eye. Revealing as he did so a long thin scar. ‘And, although I hesitate to disagree with you, Brutus, Cassius and the rest, the moment in which one of your closest associates is just about to plunge a dagger into your groin. Into your groin, mark you. Having watched his friends stab twenty-two other daggers into your head, face, arms, shoulders and chest, seems a strange one to call forth a… What did Lord Antony say you might call it?… A term of affection.’
Cicero closed his eyes, his mind racing. The implications of this were disturbing in the extreme. It did not matter that Caesar had adopted his sister’s grandson Octavian as his heir in his will. Leaving the boy his name and his fortune. Or even that he had nominated Decimus Brutus Albinus his heir in the second degree as well as Pro-praetor and Governor of Gallia Cisalpinus. There was almost no chance the full formal pardon would stand if the Senate agreed that Caesar’s dying words admitted Marcus Junius Brutus, although unacknowledged in the will, was nevertheless really Caesar’s son.
vi
Because according to Roman Law, of which Cicero was the greatest living exponent, there was only one crime worse than killing another citizen. Worse even than treason against the state. And that was killing your father. For the family was the heart of Roman society. And the Pater Familias stood at the head of the family as the dictator, Pater Patriae, stood at the head of the Republic. If Caesar’s dying words were actually a claim of fatherhood, then the Senate’s decision that Brutus was not guilty of Caesar’s murder must be set aside. Independently of the quibble about tyrannicide. For if he was guilty of patricide, he had gone beyond the bounds of forgiveness. He had slaughtered not only his Dictator but also his Pater. If he was guilty of patricide then he must be declared hostis enemy of the state. Hunted by every citizen of the empire until he was caught. Then he must be brought back to Rome. And summarily executed.
Cicero knew the details of the penalty for patricide better than anyone. Which, he suddenly realised, must be one of the major reasons why the spy and centurion had hunted him down and brought him here. As he should have seen at once. Only his dazed state following his terrified flight and near death at the hands of the mob in the minor forum could explain why he had failed to make the link earlier.
For his most famous early case, the one that established his reputation, was the defence of Sextus Roscius of Ameriain, accused of that very crime. Which was why Brutus himself, in deadly secret, during the hours after the murder, had brought his horrible misgivings to his friend and lawyer. For Brutus, too, believed that Caesar’s dying words claimed him as his son. Which in itself would be the most terrible revenge the dying man could possibly take. Now the jurist looked up at the stony faces opposite. The countenance of the cruel spy and soldier who had thrown his woman to the mob claimed his attention. The advocate knew his true adversary then. There was no longer any doubt about the rumours. Centurion Artemidorus had discovered someone willing to act as witness to what had been said during the moments it had taken Caesar to die. Who knew exactly what Caesar’s dying words had been and to whom they had been spoken. And he saw how those three words of Greek could become the leading conspirator’s Achilles’ heel. If Brutus was found guilty of patricide, that guilt would tarnish all the others by association. Opening them dangerously to the hostility not only of the People, but also the Senate. The deeply split and wavering Senate who had stood by Caesar’s murderers so far. Largely at the prompting of Cicero himself. As well as laying Brutus open to the horrific sentence called Poena Cullei.
In many ways Poena Cullei seemed to be an almost laughable punishment. In no way comparable to ejection from the Tarpeian Rock. Or even crucifixion. Though no Roman citizen could be crucified. And ejection would result only in a few heartbeats of terrified downward flight before you were smashed to pieces on the roadway below. If you were wise enough to dive rather than to jump. The former ensured death. The latter risked an agonising end as, crippled but still living, you were impaled on a great brass hook and dragged to the Tiber to drown. Worse even than this, Poena Cullei involved the ritual of stripping the condemned man naked while a leather sack big enough to hold him was prepared. Then, into the sack should be put a dog, a cat, a monkey, a fighting cock and a viper. When they were in place, the naked man joined them. The sack was sewn shut. Then it was thrown into the Tiber. Each of the animals had a symbolic significance long lost in time.
But Cicero knew all too well the nightmares of the terrified Sextus Roscius. Which, now, Marcus Junius Brutus might well be sharing. Dogs and cats have teeth and claws. Cockerels have beaks and spurs. The sort of monkeys selected could be anything from chimpanzees to baboons. Large, strong animals, also well supplied with teeth. All in all, given the situation likely to arise in a slowly sinking sack with a man, naked and defenceless, among these terrified animals tearing at each other, the viper offered the best alternative. If it could be made to strike some vital part. Before the other drowning occupants tore the dying man to pieces. With their teeth, claws, beaks and spurs.
‘Sextus Roscius most feared having his face clawed off before he drowned,’ mused Cicero. ‘I myself wondered whether having one’s genitals rent asunder or one’s intestines ripped
out might be worse. But my thoughts were apparently too earthly. Sextus was terrified that his anima spirit would wander, faceless, blind and anonymous through the afterlife. Helpless and unrecognised for all eternity.’
The silence returned. The rain eased so that individual drops fell into the impluvium as though the gods themselves were counting the passage of time, thought Artemidorus grimly. So that the mere mortals in the atrium could all appreciate the length of eternity. And a man like Brutus’ whole existence seemed to have been dictated not only by his standing in society but also his importance as the latest representative of his famous family. A living representative of the standing of his forefathers in the history of the city through the centuries. For such a man, the thought of wandering blind, faceless and unknown through the rest of time must hold horrors simply unimaginable to lesser men of no family. Who did not expect their names to echo through the atria of history. ‘So,’ he demanded. Breaking into the silence. ‘If a case could be made that Caesar did, in fact, accuse Brutus of patricide with his dying breath, what would be the next step?’
vii
‘The case would need to be presented to the Senate,’ Cicero answered slowly, his mind clearly racing. ‘Who would need to be convinced by the testimony of witnesses. Who in turn would need to be unimpeachable in such a terrible matter. Then, if convinced there was a case to answer, they would recall him in the name of the People of Rome to face the charge in person. Declare him hostis outlaw if he refused. If such a charge could be proven, not even the Senate could set it aside.
‘And could such a case be made?’ probed Antony.
‘That is not a question I could answer immediately,’ answered Cicero guardedly. ‘It would turn around the evidence of witnesses, for instance. A prosecution in the proper forms…’ His voice tailed off. As he realised with a lift of his spirits that nearly all of the men who had actually heard Caesar’s last words were among the murderers themselves. And they had fled the city, almost to a man. Putting themselves beyond even Antony’s reach.